Origins
by Vytina
Summary: Every experiment has its beginnings. Every motive has its purpose. Every choice in life has its origin.


**A/N: I recently realized that I haven't written too much about the relationship between Iris DeLaine and Jonathan Crane before everything went to hell in a handbasket. I frequently make mention of their relationship during the university years, but I've never written about it. Ergo, I present this little story.**

**Jonathan Crane was fired for his fear-inducing experiments on the university students. Were his chosen subjects simply random individuals of convenience...or was there a deeper meaning to it?**

**Title: Origins**

**Summary: Every experiment has its beginnings. Every motive has its purpose. Every choice in life has its origin.**

**Characters: Jonathan Crane (pre-Scarecrow), Iris DeLaine (OC)**

**Rating: M for violent images and mentions of sexual violence.**

**Disclaimer: I do not own any characters related to Batman: the Animated Series. I only own my original characters and the idea for this story.**

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><p>"<em>Revenge is an act of passion; vengeance of justice. Injuries are revenged; crimes are avenged."<em>

_~ Samuel Johnson_

Human beings, Jonathan Crane decided, are very curious things indeed.

Of course, by his personal (albeit slightly biased) opinion, the human body paled in comparison to the wonders offered by the human mind. The marvels that existed within a single mass of human tissue surrounded by solid bone were, pardon the phrase, mind-boggling. Even for one with an intellect such as his own, there was no limit to the possibilities of what one could discover by probing and exploring.

Naturally, his work extended well beyond the flimsy boundaries of human decency and the like. A potential for damage. A certainty of injury. Collateral damages, all of it. The potential for scientific discovery was limitless and pardoned every single rule that would be broken. Better to beg forgiveness than ask permission...if he could be persuaded to _ask_ forgiveness at all. Begging, on the other hand, was absurd and unheard of. He hadn't begged for anything in years, not since his misbegotten youth. He wasn't about to start now.

These insipid fools who tried to chain his work down with their regulations and their rules didn't have the tiniest comprehension of what his work could do. And clearly, they didn't care. They were only after apologies he would not offer and promises to never again repeat the offense which he would not give. Without either of the aforementioned, they warned him, any and all experiments were to come to an abrupt end. That, naturally, was a condition to which he would not adhere.

Hence the reason he was currently standing in the bowels of the university, cold concrete walls surrounding him on all four sides. And upon one of those walls was a great line of doors. Doors leading to rooms. Rooms of gray concrete and soundproofed walls. Walls that ensured no one could hear the screams.

He found himself discretely licking his lips as he peered into one room, dark eyes carefully examining the facial expression and body movements of Subject #250689—otherwise known as Miss Candace Flitch, vivacious young cheerleader and prominent member of sorority chapter Delta Alpha. By the questionable standards of college men—men only by physical rights, boys by all other rights—she was considered relatively attractive. Dark brown curls. Heavily tanned skin. Sharp gray eyes. Surgically well-endowed. The list of qualifications for the most base and primal activities went on.

None of her supposed attributes were of interest to him any more than they were currently of service to her. Her pretty face wasn't going to woo and sway the cockroaches currently exploring the ground around her, preparing to make a curious trek up her flailing limbs, and it certainly wasn't going to convince him to stop the experiment. If anything, the results he pulled from her would only be filed away as notes for the next one. And yes, there would be a next one.

She was only the first.

It was quite a curious thing though, knowing that such an attractive human being could harbor such a vindictive and merciless heart. His own heart held its own mess of distortions and the like, but his face lacked her appeal. It would be of little surprise, he supposed, should anyone discover these experiments...and that he was the master mind behind them. For the world, quicker to judge than to investigate, his was the face of a monster, and hers of the helpless victim.

But it was she who held the heart of a monster. And he was going to see that she was slayed. She and all the others. Their crime was unforgivable. Their punishment would be his personal brand of execution.

It was quite unprofessional for science to hold motives, and as a scientist, he should know better. But he would make an exception...just this once.

Turning his eyes away from her, the professor reached inside his jacket to withdraw two neatly folded papers. As he unfolded the first one, his own handwriting looked back at him in blue ink. A lengthy list of names, with Candace Flitch being the very first. The list currently ended with Jimmy Walters, and an unpleasant smile curled Crane's lips as he traced the boy's name with silent anticipation. He was already looking forward to having Mr. Walters in the laboratory.

The second paper was a more formal looking document, covered in a lengthy array of typed information until the very bottom, where a large chunk of white had been boxed out for the purpose of handwritten comments. The handwriting left something to be desired in his opinion, but it was legible. Very, very legible.

_Patient was admitted with considerable trauma to the face and upper body. Most severe injuries are limited to the lower extremities. Initial assessment of sexual assault appears to be supported by the tests we have conducted. There is considerable evidence of vaginal trauma as well as multiple bruises on her inner thighs and wrists—appears to have been forcibly held down. Patient was unconscious upon admission and unable to provide any information. Has regained consciousness twice in last forty-eight hour period since admission, but hasn't spoken. Will continue to monitor for progress._

A short break in the notes, and then there was an additional note below. This was the note that was of particular interest...especially to him.

_Patient has extensive history of admittance to the emergency room, both in this hospital and at two others. Evidence of multiple, albeit healed, injuries were uncovered during this most recent medical examination. Patient is fifteen years old. Will contact her parents and the proper authorities as soon as possible._

Jonathan Crane closed his fist around the paper. It crumpled with a distinct sound that seemed to echo throughout the wall as clear as though he'd fired a gun. He had no use for it now. He'd learned all he needed to know.

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><p>He hated hospitals. Always had. White walls and gleaming tile floors. The bitter stench of medicine and human filth lingering through every hall. There was only some brief enjoyment if he happened to catch a wail of agony drifting past an open door, or a shriek of disgust when a nurse uncovered a rather unsightly mess from the newest patient.<p>

A brief discussion with the nurse, him promising an unobtrusive visit and her promising discretion, brought him to the second floor. Room 256. The sharp sound of a heart monitor caught his attention before he even opened the door, and he listened for a short minute with baited breath. Steady heartbeat. He released the breath in a silent sigh. An unspoken sound of relief.

The room was blank, empty of any gifts. No "Get Well Soon" decorations. No cards of well wishes. No flowers. Nothing. Anger tightened the back of his throat. It was as though no one cared. It was as though she didn't even matter. As though she and her suffering didn't exist.

Just like his suffering hadn't existed.

He slowly lowered his gangly limbs into the bedside chair. Her pale face didn't move, but her chest rose and fell in rhythmic patterns. She was still alive, and of her own accord. No machines were necessary to sustain life, just like the _proper authorities_ weren't necessary to keep her safe. He could. He would.

He already was.

A soft whimper caught his ears, and he looked up to find her eyes barely flickering open. The bruises around her eyes were dark, but her one exposed eye was still blue. Dull, missing the usual vibrancy, but still blue. Still alive. Still surviving.

She was a survivor, just like him. He had endured just as much hell in his life, and she was strong enough to do the same. He would teach her to survive.

Perhaps in time...he would teach her to seek revenge.

"Go back to sleep, Iris," he said quietly. His hand itched to touch her face, brush her hair away from her face, maybe even kiss her brow as a father would—should. But he wouldn't. He couldn't...not now. Not ever.

She gazed at him for a long moment, then her face fell blank once more. Such peace even amidst welts and dark bruises. It was almost angelic.

The sheer innocence of her features made those responsible all the more worthy of his particular brand of punishment. It was a special crime worthy of special punishment to harm one as innocent as she was. A crime only he could adequately punish.

He retrieved his list once more, this time with a pen in hand. He neatly unfolded it with his folded leg as a makeshift desk and studied Candace Flitch's name once more. The image of her face, contorted with her anguish and terror, was branded clear as daylight before his eyes. It made him smile.

The pen set down upon her name and drew a thick line of black across every letter. He could almost imagine the pen a blade, and its destruction of her written name enough to eradicate her very existence.

Soon enough, he smiled quietly. Soon enough.


End file.
